


Shalimar

by fairywine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Velvet Pair, historical fic, velvetpairweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 03:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywine/pseuds/fairywine
Summary: Slovakia, Czechia, and the certain special nostalgia of Shalimar perfume. Their first anniversary has long passed, and no more are to come, but there’s a certain sweetness to remembering. Even with the sting of all that followed.(Velvet Pair Week 2018, day 2/Nostalgia)





	Shalimar

Autumn in Paris. There’s an undeniable mystery and romance to the words, like a glance from a beautiful stranger. Not the frothy, macarons and champagne mood of Paris in the spring, nor the fervent summers of heat and far too many tourists, or even snowy wonderland of ‘ _Joyeux Noel_ ’ that is the Paris winter. Fall is a creature all its own, of crackling dry red and brown leaves, grey skies strewn about with thin, charcoal-colored clouds. The smell of hot roasted nuts wafts temptingly through the air, irresistible even to the most haughty Parisienne locals, stylish coats and scarves an ever-chic armor against the growing chill. It’s time of year made for thick, cable-knit sweaters, hot tea in chipped mugs, and poetry books well-worn at the spine, all sparkled over in that uncapturable Paris magic.

On paper, anyway. To Slovakia, firmly lodged in the rather less romantic reality of _finally_ getting out of a ten-hour long climate conference with an aching back and slight headache, the atmosphere is irrelevant. All he wants in the world right now is to go back to his shoe-box sized hotel room, drown the pains of bureaucratic tedium in a shower as hot as his body can stand, and get something to eat that isn’t stale croissants and bad coffee. Bad coffee at conferences is just one of those inevitabilities of the world, like death and taxes. Certainly even Paris has its share of mediocre food for all its airs as the culinary capital of the world. After such a long day, though, it just feels like salt in the wound.

Still, Czechia’s murmured comment of how France seemed to have saved the conference budget by picking up all the refreshments from an Esso gas station had been the one highlight of Slovakia’s day. At least it amused him enough to get through the last, seemingly unending hour. It had taken everything just to keep a straight face, although Germany’s laser-like glare was probably proof he hadn’t entirely succeeded.

Just thinking of it makes Slovakia grin, and before he’s even really aware of the action he’s already typing out a text to Czechia, asking her if she wants to grab dinner in one of the quieter _arrondissements_. His thumb hovers over the send button, hesitation striking as suddenly as the urge to be with Czechia alone, away from work and crappy food. This unspoken thing between them-what rose out of the ashes of their not-a-divorce and centuries of history before that-feels still too fragile even twenty-five years after the fact. And of the two of them, the more confident one has never been him.

Slovakia’s probably overthinking things like he always does. Dinner is just dinner sometimes, even in the City of Lights. Finding it within himself to just man up already, Slovakia sends the text and puts his phone back in his pocket. Swearing he’s _not_ going to look every few seconds for Czechia’s reply like a teenager with his first serious girlfriend, Slovakia focuses instead on making his way to the Métro station where he can catch the rail back to his hotel.

The waters of the Seine are a murky, flat ribbon of grey past the Pont de l’Alma where the entrance to the Alma-Marceau station lays. Even this doesn’t prove a deterrent to the tourists snapping selfies at the bridge, trying to squeeze as much of the Eiffel Tower as humanly possible into each shot. Slovakia’s been to Paris enough that his eyes automatically skip over vacationers, instead noticing the small crowd of locals milling around the Métro without going inside with growing alarm. In his experience, Parisiennes waiting outside public transport without purpose doesn’t bode well

“Une grève?” Slovakia asks the closest person after a moment of trying to remember what he really hopes is the right word for ‘strike’. His stilted French earns him a glance, but a look at his business suit evidently gets him filed into the category of “foreign but at least not a tourist” and therefore the bare minimum of acceptable.

“Non, plus de travaux de construction.”

That’s the third time the station refurbishment has been extended this _month_. Slovakia and the man share a look of fellow feeling despite their innate foreignness and Parisian-ness respectively, exchanging a small nod before the latter takes his leave. Biting back a groan, Slovakia looks up at sky that isn’t promising rain so much as signing the last bits of paperwork on an iron-clad contract. Now there’s only the debate over whether to subject himself to the torture and expense of a French taxi, or the torture, cheapness, and far longer travel time of a bus.

Running his hands through his hair and mentally cursing himself for not bringing an umbrella-it’s fall, he really should have known better-Slovakia ambles eastward aimlessly. It’s putting off the inevitable, but there’s still the faint hope that if he gets closer to the north of the 8th arrondissement where his hotel is, that will take at least some of the sting out of the taxi bill. Knowing better than to head to the Champs-Élysées and get price gouged to the last euro, Slovakia keeps to the side of the Seine at a brisk pace. The air has that bite to it immediately preceding a ruthless drenching rain, and he has no desire to get soaked on top of everything else.

Slovakia’s luck runs out around the time he reaches the Palais de la Découverte, a few warning drops dampening the shoulders of his suit jacket. He barely has time to dash under the awning of a _brasserie_ across the street before the rain comes down with a fury so intense one would suspect the City of Paris had just insulted its mother. Well, all things considered it could be worse. At this point his hotel is close enough it probably won’t be necessary to sell a kidney to pay for the cab fare, and in the distance he can spot a few taxis approaching.

A young woman ducks under the crimson awning just as Slovakia holds his arm out to hail a cab. Normally he wouldn’t pay her any mind, a typical stylish Paris girl with kind of velvety dark skin and riotous curls that speaks of ancestry from one of France’s old African holdings. It isn’t her fashionable attire that draws Slovakia’s eye back, even if the arrangement of coat, scarf, and hat _just so_ is impressively chic while looking effortless. Something about her smile, brimming with firm self-assurance even on a gloomy and grey day...well, there will always be only one woman that will come to Slovakia’s mind there.

The taxis are getting closer, and Slovakia focuses on the task at hand. He waves vigorously for a moment until he’s fairly sure at least one driver _must_ have seen him, relaxing back to wait fully sheltered from the downpour. Rolling his stiff shoulders, Slovakia takes a deep breath in and-

_Street lamps glowing. A cool, crisp March night in Prague. Hand in hand, wedding rings occasionally clinking together. A surprised breath, and blue eyes shining fit to make the majestic Vltava seem dull. Lips curving up, snaring his heart like a fishhook. Hope._

-catches a fragrance he hasn’t smelled for a long, long time.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” Slovakia starts. The girl glances at him, head tilted in silent permission to continue. The taxi is almost here, but he has to _know_. “Quel est ce parfum?”

“C’est Shalimar,” she says, and the name nearly makes Slovakia sag against the window with how hard the memories hit him.

“ _Shalimar_.” Slovakia shakes his head. “Bien sûr.”

The ferocious honking of the taxi throws Slovakia out of his reverie, along with the impatient expression of the cab driver clearly indicating his willingness to leave in an instant. After a hasty “ _merci_ ” to the girl Slovakia dashes into the dry warmth of the car, not even minding the French rap playing far too loudly.

“Où aller?”

“Oh, uh…” Slovakia pulls out his phone, the address of his hotel escaping him. There are two new text alerts from Czechia, and when he opens them up his heart lodges itself somewhere in his throat.

**Česko: Dinner sounds lovely. Especially after the conference food.**

**Česko: Our usual place?**

Perfect punctuation in a text message. It’s just so...her.

**You:  yeah hopefully the meal will be good enough to erase the memory of those croissants**

**You: until the next time i pass an esso**

**You:  around 19,00?**

“Monsieur, la destination?” The driver looks even grumpier than he did before, something Slovakia didn’t think was possible. The scowl he receives makes his face hot enough that the stuffy confines of the taxi are near overwhelming. His phone vibrates one more time, and even the fear of his cab driver kicking him out isn’t enough to keep Slovakia from glancing down.

**Česko: Perfect. I’ll see you then.**

Slovakia swallows hard, weighing the wisdom of what he’s about to do versus the likelihood it will blow up spectacularly in his face. But he can’t _not_ take the chance. Not now.

“Printemps Haussmann, s’il vous plaît,” Slovakia says, tone contrite enough the driver grunts and turns his focus to the road. Settling back more comfortably into his seat, he shuts his eyes, the past dancing across his vision, his soul.

* * *

 

Prague, Czechoslovakia. March 1921.

“Dinner?” Czechia mouths the word like she isn’t sure what to make of it.

“I thought it would be a nice way to mark our anniversary,” Slovakia explains, mild smile at odds with the internal fit of nerves he’s fighting. “Especially now that things are settled for good.” 

Well, ‘settled for good’ is definitely laying on the optimism thick. As long as he lives, Slovakia doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look on Hungary’s face when the Treaty of Trianon had been signed, finally severing her ancient territorial claims and getting her armies out of his land. It had been a rage so blinding and intense it went right back around to diamond hard composure. Even now recalling it sends a shudder down Slovakia’s spine. There’s a part of him that won’t shake the belief Hungary isn’t done, not by a long shot.

Slovakia can’t let that fear rule him. He’s free and autonomous-partnership aside-for the first time since his Nitra days a thousand years ago. It’s long past time to make his own decisions. Taking the effort to make the Czechoslovak union successful, _equal_ , is part of said decisions. He wants to stand by Czechia’s side, not in her shadow. 

“Oh,” Czechia murmurs, stroking the band around her ring finger absently. It’s simple gold, the war and its following political and military chaos meaning they hadn’t had much to throw around for something more elaborate. But she wears it with such grace nonetheless. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to mark the occasion.”

There are parts of Slovakia that don’t, it’s true. Shadowy, venomous, whispering that the Slovaks have only traded a Magyar master for a Slav one. That the ever-superior Czechs have all the power, and _what should we do about_ **_that_ **. Small parts, but persistent, and something Slovakia knows he’ll have to deal with sooner or later.

Czechia hadn’t forced him to accept her proposal, a united nation of western Slavic peoples. Only offered, and Slovakia had freely chosen to accept when he could have tried to strike out on his own. Not like the unions of old, built on military conquests and marriage ties. A _modern_ state, the kind that would stride into the future where old kingdoms had crumbled. Not a perfect country, but one Slovakia believed in, and believed could grow better. And he wants to make this marriage succeed, for them to be a true team.

Slovakia feels like he’s been grasping at Czechia’s back for centuries, this bright-eyed girl who never lost a fraction of her pride no matter the indignities history heaped upon her. Not like himself, an afterthought of Slav peasantry who had his fate always appended to Hungary’s. Who had kept his head down, who might have lost himself completely if Czechia hadn’t been around to keep him from forgetting. Maybe it’s overstepping things, but...he’d like to hold her hand, instead.

“I do,” Slovakia says. “Just a personal thing, for us.” He risks a glance at Czechia, whose face is still unreadable, and feels his confidence start to crack. “Uh, unless you don’t want to-I shouldn’t have presumed-”

“W-well, if you _really_ want to I suppose I don’t mind,” Czechia interrupts, and damn if that blush on her face doesn’t make Slovakia a little weak at the knees. It’s just so adorable he can’t stand it. As if sensing his thoughts she glares, but Slovakia can tell her heart’s not in it. “Did you even have anything planned out?” 

“I know planning is your thing, but yes, I did,” Slovakia says. “Dinner at that restaurant you like at the Adria Hotel, and then a Dvořák concert afterwards.”

Czechia’s mouth is hanging open slightly in shock, and Slovakia would be a little insulted if she didn’t also look so delighted. Just in case, he files the memory away to be pulled up a more useful date. The important thing is she’s impressed, and it _really_ shouldn’t be held against Slovakia that it spurs him to get a little too ahead of himself.

“So dress nicely, alright?” Slovakia grins at Czechia, smile widening slightly at her indignant ‘ _hmph_ ’. “That’s not all I’ve got, you know.”

“Really?” Czechia arches a brow, and even though they’re a republic now it hasn’t lost anything of its aristocratic edge. “And what would that be?”

“You’ll have to wait until March 6th to find out,” Slovakia says cheekily, all the while fighting the urge to slap himself. He _hasn’t_ got anything else, and now like an idiot he’s raised her expectations with only five more days to find something.

Well, Slovakia has known Czechia for centuries. How hard could finding one more special gift really be?

* * *

 

The answer is, _very_.

Certainly it would be easy to find any number of nice things to give to Czechia, it’s true. Things haven’t been easy for Czechoslovakia as of late, but in Prague there are a wealth of boutiques, jewelers, florists and more fit to make a woman’s heart positively keel over with swooning.

But this is for Czechia, for their first anniversary, a gift that is meant to say so many things. That Slovakia was thinking of her and her alone, the things she loves, and worked to bring Czechia something to show how much he wants their union to flourish. For her to be happy, with him.

Slovakia sees plenty that he know she’d like. Silk scarves so richly blue they’d almost (but not quite) do justice to her eyes. Vanity sets of silver and inlaid mother-of-pearl. Any number of beautiful antiques Czechia would treat with the care they deserve. All nice things, but ones she could easily get for herself.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Slovakia couldn’t find anything, but…

Czechia makes a good show of not being that excited for their anniversary, but he can tell otherwise. Riffling through her closet, hands touching this dress and that one as if the sensation of cloth alone will help her decide which to wear. Jewelry laid on her vanity, a small but tasteful assembly of gold and gems at ready attention for their mistress. And thoughtful blue eyes Slovakia can feel gazing when his back is turned, although Czechia somehow always manages to look away before he can catch her at it. 

...Slovakia can’t let her down after that, even in one way. Acutely, he feels the trust that’s been placed in him, and the hope.

Well, if there’s one thing Slovakia has over Czechia, it’s that he has a much less hard time putting his pride aside when the situation calls for it. It’s time to get some help.

* * *

 

“An anniversary gift? And for this you came all the way to my house?”

It’s a strange thing to be grateful for, but Slovakia is immeasurably glad he took off his hat as good manners dictated when he entered France’s apartment in Paris. Otherwise he’d be wringing it between his hands out of nerves, and Slovakia already feels like enough of a country bumpkin in such an ostentatious home, in the most cuttingly fashionable city in the world. Slovakia thinks of Bratislava, of stone streets and medieval towers dotting the landscape, the way a drowning man thinks of the shore.

Fortified enough to go on, Slovakia looks at France head-on. His light blue eyes are almost disturbingly bright, like those of a fevered man, looking upon the world through a haze. Slovakia understands where it’s coming from, the same place that has him wake up sweating and trying not to scream in the dead of night, breathing into his pillow. Seeing smoke, bodies, bullets, unending wastelands. Sometimes Czechia will stroke Slovakia’s back until every muscle in his body doesn’t feel like it’s made of steel-edged terror. Sometimes they have to hold onto each other. 

So Slovakia does get it, the way France has been throwing himself into life with a manic fervour. Champagne and cigarettes, dance halls and glittering lights, fast cars and shorter hemlines. Living like a candle flame does just before it’s about to extinguish isn’t what Slovakia would chose to do, but they all have different ways of keeping the demons at bay. And behind the relentlessly carefree air of _joie de vivre_ France wears like armor, there’s a spark of genuine interest, at least. 

“It’s our first,” Slovakia says, like France doesn’t already know that. Maybe he’s just reminding himself of what’s at stake, but that’s hardly necessary either. “I looked, but nothing was-was special enough. I wanted something that would show Czechia…” 

Slovakia’s voice trails off awkwardly. France may be one of the most important allies the Czechoslovak Republic has, but this is swiftly getting far past the level of personal alliances usually are set at. But Slovakia must have done _something_ right, because France’s face is relaxing into something a little less forced. Probably the mention of Czechia. France has always had a soft spot for “la Bohème”.

“You have known Czechia far more deeply, and dare I say  _intimately,_ than I ever could,” France finally says with a very Gallic shrug, not bothering to hide his amusement at the deep crimson shade Slovakia goes. “I can advise, but not guarantee.”

“I know she likes your culture,” Slovakia says helplessly, trying to think of something more useful. “Because Czechia’s like that, she loves things that are beautiful but have a purpose, and you’re good at that too-” 

“Flattering, and of course very true,” France interrupts, sounding far too pleased with himself, “But perhaps a more specific focus would help?”

“I looked at lots of things...flowers-”

“The least any woman would expect. You can do better.”

“Scarfs-”

“Of which I don’t doubt she has plenty.”

“Jewelry-”

“To be frank, anything spectacular enough to make an impression will be too dear in cost.”

“Vanity sets-”

“Too practical and not romantic enough.”

“Antiques-”

“My friend, aren’t we all?”

Slovakia scowls while France has a good, hearty laugh at the look on his face. It’s enough to make him think on giving up the whole exercise and going somewhere else (although to where, Slovakia couldn’t say given every single one of his other allies are the last people he’d ever go to for relationship help. Romantic advice from _America_. He might as well save himself some effort and sign the divorce papers right now). Only France heading over to his liquor cabinet stops him.

“Perhaps a little creative fuel will help?” France settles down two crystal tumblers, along with an heavy glass decanter filled with what looks like cognac. Slovakia doubts the other Nation needs the excuse, but he’s not going to turn up his nose at France’s brandy. Besides, he really doesn’t have any better ideas at this point.

France pours out three fingers for them both, the rich aroma of the liquor filling the air. Taking his tumbler with a nod of thanks, Slovakia clinks his glass against France’s before taking a sip. As expected, it’s top quality stuff, sliding down his throat with a rich, sensuous warmth.

“Pretty good,” Slovakia says-because he still is kind of irritated, after all-and the mortally offended noise France makes is enough to make him call it even. “Fine, _heavenly_.”

“And to think I shared a personal favorite,” France says in a miffed tone. All the same, it doesn’t stop him from topping off Slovakia’s glass. “When will the betrayal stop?”

Slovakia doesn’t hide his eye roll at France’s theatrics, but is content to keep sipping at his brandy and think. France looks at him for a reaction to play off of-like Slovakia is England or something and lets himself be baited so easily-but upon seeing none relaxes back in his couch and enjoys his liquor with only a little bit of a pout.

It isn’t a bad way to pass the time, in an elegant apartment with good brandy and the ambient street noises of Paris drifting up ever so slightly. The heady, sweet heat of the cognac definitely takes some of the edge off his anxiety. But even the buzz Slovakia’s getting doesn’t distract from the reality that he’s no further along to finding an appropriately amazing anniversary gift than before. Frustrated, Slovakia drains off the last of his drink and sets down the tumbler on the coffee table with perhaps a bit more force than he really should have.

France doesn’t say anything, a surprisingly empathetic look in his eyes. Lifting up the decanter once more, he refills both of their tumblers with a practiced gesture. Finishing, he corks the bottle with its curved glass stopper, and something about it triggers the germ of an idea in Slovakia’s head. The stopper, the stopper...what is that reminding him of? 

“She likes this,” Slovakia murmurs, taking the decanter to examine it closer.

“...the cognac?” France asks, body language split between confusion and clearly stating he’s about two seconds away from taking the bottle back before Slovakia ends up spilling it or turning the liquor off-flavor from the heat of his hands. “Anyone with taste does, but I am not sure alcohol is the thing you are looking for in a gift.”

“No, no, it’s the bottle.” Slovakia shakes his head, trying to get his slightly muzzy brain back in order. Setting the liquor down on the table, recognition finally clicks. “It’s shaped like a perfume she really likes, from your house. Kind of long, with that curved topper. Smells good on her. Bold.”

France’s brow knits slightly before his eyes gain the light of realization. “Jicky? Is that it?” 

“Yes!” Slovakia straightens, excited for a moment before slumping back into the cushy confines of his armchair. “But she already has one.” 

Silence. Slovakia glances at France, who looks like he’s thinking furiously, one hand absently rubbing his chin. Uncertain of whether or not to speak up and disrupt him or not, a minute passes before it becomes a non-issue. France shoots up onto his feet so abruptly the finger of cognac still remaining in his tumbler sloshes like an amber-hued sea. 

“Get your coat and hat!” France claps his hands together in a show of enthusiasm Slovakia honestly finds alarming. The expression of delighted daring in rejection of common sense doesn’t help. 

“Wha-” Slovakia starts, before France gives up on waiting and yanks him bodily up. Dragging Slovakia to his front door, the other Nation shoves Slovakia’s belongings at him before sliding into his own garments. “Where are we going?” 

“On a quest for _romance_ , obviously,” France says, giving himself a quick one-over in the mirror then nodding in approval. Opening the door, he shoves Slovakia-still struggling with one of his coat sleeves-out and locking up behind him. “Or more specifically, 22 Rue Murillo. If you must know.”

Slovakia can’t place the street, or why it would be at all significant. There’s nothing he can think of near it, just apartments and maybe a park. It feels like France has summoned a taxi and stuffed them both in it so fast Slovakia’s head is spinning. Or maybe that’s just too much Cognac.

“And this is really where I’ll find what I need?” 

“Indeed, my friend,” France says, with total assurance. “...as long as I can convince him, anyway.”

* * *

 

Jacques Guerlain looks, to put it in a single word, unconvinced.

Slovakia has met humans not swayed by the presence of Nations, but those tend to fall into the category of rulers and saints, those bound for greatness or who have already seized it. Not an obviously well off but otherwise unremarkable middle-aged man of the sterner vein of classic French _bonne papa._ But other than some slight surprise at having the unexpected company of not just his own nation of France but half of the Republic of Czechoslovakia walk into his parlor, Guerlain had otherwise remained a complete cipher. He had merely sat in a plush armchair, surrounded by what even Slovakia recognized as a stellar collection of East Asian porcelains and Impressionist paintings, stately and remote as a king in his throne room. France hurriedly related the whole situation, nearly slurring the English (in a necessary but still surprising concession to the fact that the part of Czechoslovakia that is any good at speaking French is not Slovakia) in his rush of words.

“And as soon as I realized he was referring to Jicky, I immediately thought of-”

At this Guerlain lifts a hand for silence, cutting off France. 

“My Nation, you cannot seriously be asking what I think you are. _Especially_ as it regards information that was relayed to you in confidence,” Guerlain says in clear English that speaks of a boarding school education, though not enough to rob it of the French accent threaded thickly through it.

“And that confidence has not been betrayed,” France protests, pressing a hand to his heart like he’s been stabbed. “My companion, who is as distant from your domain as the sun is from our own Earth, has not an inkling of why we’re here-”

“Hey!”

“But merely seeks to give his wife a gift that shows the depth of his determination to be a worthy spouse to her, for their _first_ anniversary.” France leans forward, radiating pure intentions. “Speaking as one myself, that is a form of immortality, to be a part of such an occasion.”

Guerlain just stares at France in way that shows how very full of _merde_ he finds that bit of speechifying, before pulling round glasses off his face to polish. The only sound in the room is the movement of the cloth, a strange counterpoint to the tense silence. 

“I do not think I need to tell you how little the glory of Nations means to me, France,” Guerlain says tersely. “To say the least of handing over a unreleased creation I might even dare to call my magnum opus to a friend of yours merely due to his wife’s fancy for Jicky.” 

“It’s not a fancy!” Slovakia can’t help but say indignantly, and both men turn his way as if they had half-forgotten he was there. Well, it’s not a unfamiliar experience. “Czechia’s worn Jicky ever since it first came out. That’s what, thirty years?”

“Thirty-two,” Guerlain murmurs, looking over Slovakia like a miner unexpectedly stumbling upon a nugget of gold amidst the coal, finding something of value against considerable odds. “Since it’s introduction, you say? That’s surprising. Most women found Jicky too daring to wear for the first decade or so of its existence.” 

Slovakia can’t help the short laugh that escapes him. Czechia in the late 1880s, fighting for state rights and Slav autonomy tooth and nail from Austria and Hungary. Printing out pamphlets, organizing protests, demanding the Czech language take its rightful place of usage in the Bohemian Crownlands over the German of the Habsburgs. Sneering at the crumbs thrown her way by the empire, eyes alight with blue fire, words thorny with defiance. The same girl who beat him in races and arm wrestling when they were children, still holding her head high.

“If anything, I was always amazed that a perfume existed that was bold enough to match her,” Slovakia says. It strikes him that might be considered insulting, and he hastily adds, “Sir.”

“And for a woman like this, you were looking for an anniversary gift,” Guerlain says, and there might be a slight flash of understanding to be seen in that stoic visage. For a moment, anyway. “What do you think of it, then? The Jicky, on your daring wife.”

“Me?” Slovakia tries to think back on the first time he can recall Czechia wearing the perfume. It hadn’t been easy, back then. Hungary had always been strict about his interactions with his western neighbor, suspecting Czechia of fermenting resistance amongst the Slovaks against the Dual Monarchy in favor of Slav autonomy. And to be fair, that was true, if degrading that keeping Slovakia ignorant is all it would take to cap his ambitions for more freedom.

But official Imperial occasions meant _everyone_ ruled by the Dual Monarchy had to make an appearance. Especially when it involves a imperial-and-royal wedding. The Archduchess Marie Valerie’s wedding, at Bad Ischl in 1890. It had been the smallest of moments, while Austria and Hungary were sufficiently distracted by the happy couple to not be as vigilant as they might have been otherwise. A quiet alcove, a much too brief conversation. Czechia looking beyond lovely in her navy evening gown trimmed with white lace, the flowing cut of the dress highlighting her slim, elegant figure. Holding her hands, properly gloved as a lady’s should be, and wishing so desperately he could feel bare skin.

An enticing aroma, wafting up from the soft arch of Czechia’s throat, at the points of her wrists. Not a simple perfume of rose or violet or another society approved demure flower, but something utterly new and different. Just enough to make Slovakia want to draw in closer, a bewitching melange of spices, lemon, and lavender that turned into something utterly irresistible when combined with her skin-

“It was like a...a spell,” Slovakia says awkwardly, realizing he’s been lost in his memories for far too long. France smirking slightly like he knew exactly what Slovakia had been thinking about. Despite the fact he hadn’t even been invited to the wedding. “It’s not I like lavender or any of those scents _that_ much, but...on her I couldn’t tear myself away.”

Guerlain doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives Slovakia makes him feel like he’s been examined down to his marrow. Slovakia doesn’t know how he should react but just tries to keep calm. It’s not a great effort-he’s never been good at containing his feelings-and when Guerlain gets to his feet and locks the parlor door the Slav nation nearly jumps.

“All this would be for nothing if the perfume is unsuitable,” Guerlain says, gesturing for France and Slovakia to follow him. Leaving the luxurious parlor through the other door, they find themselves in a rather more austere if still tastefully appointed office. Guerlain goes back around his broad mahogany desk to reach up to what looks like a Pissarro painting hanging on the wall behind it. It slides to the side via a hidden mechanism, revealing a _very_ solid looking safe. “Since Jicky seems to be a very complimentary scent on your wife’s skin, I doubt we will have any issues in that regard.”

Guerlain spins the lock swiftly back and forth, the door of the safe swinging silently open on well-oiled hinges. It blocks Slovakia’s view of the contents within, or even its true depth-not that he’s trying to look. He’s not sure exactly what to expect, but a single small glass perfume vial, plain and unadorned except for a paper label of “G-S-1921-PF” was not it. France inhales sharply at the sight, obviously seeing more significance in the vial than Slovakia does, and Guerlain inclines his head in stately acknowledgement.

“So this is it,” France says, excitement bubbling through even his usual air of suave nonchalance. 

“The completed prototype bottles arrived just yesterday,” Guerlain says grandly, the satisfied tone of a job well done in his voice. “But I won’t pull those out until I am sure of things here.”

“Um…” Slovakia speaks up. Under twin French glances he feels every bit the country mouse, and he _knows_ his flush is probably making his whole face crimson. But he still has to ask, mainly because he’s totally lost. “Monsieur Guerlain, what is that exactly?”

“You really didn’t tell him anything,” Guerlain says dryly to France. Ignoring France’s offended huff, he turns his full attention to Slovakia. From what little he’s seen of the man thus far, Slovakia can tell he’s a private sort of person. But he can say for sure, Guerlain is an artist absolutely devoted to his craft.

“This...this is my masterpiece,” Guerlain says simply, but without a single shred of doubt. “I have created countless perfumes over the course of my career, and hope to create many more, but this one is...unparalleled.”

Guerlain sprinkles some of the perfume on a little slip of paper, holding it out to Slovakia. Taking a breath, Slovakia is strongly reminded of the Jicky Czechia is so fond of, except...this is even better, somehow. More complex, yet more balanced.  Seeing the positive reception, Guerlain pushes Slovakia’s sleeve up to expose the wrist, carefully hitting the area with just the right amount of scent. Rubbing it in efficiently, Guerlain makes him wait for it to settle before allowing him to smell the combination the perfume makes combined with skin.

A moment passes, then another.

“Masterpiece, I think, does not do your perfume justice,” Slovakia says, voice hoarse. Just thinking of how this will smell on Czechia is enough to make his head spin like a drunk man’s. “What is it called?”

“ _Shalimar._ An ode to eternal love, inspired by the Far East,” Guerlain says with something like satisfaction, reaching once more into his safe to pass a small box into Slovakia’s hand. “There are only ten of these in existence at this moment. Do not make me regret my choice to entrust you with one of them.”

“Of course. Of course.” Slovakia shakes his head, trying to bring himself back into the here and now. “No words will ever be enough, but...thank you. Thank you so much.”

It might be Slovakia’s imagination, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile on the edge of that stern mouth. “Joyeux anniversaire, République de Tchécoslovaquie. To you and your lady.”

* * *

 

The best word to describe a happy Czechia, Slovakia thinks, is _mesmerizing_ . She’s never been the bubbly, effervescent type, and it takes a certain observant eye to catch her being pleased. But when Czechia _is_ happy, she radiates contentment, drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

“No one does Dvořák in such a peerless way as Václav Talich,” Czechia sighs, voice heady with artistic appreciation. Against Slovakia’s natural tendency to misfortune, the evening had gone almost unnervingly well. Dinner at the Adria Hotel had been absolutely delicious, the unique underground location of the restaurant lending the meal a special air of cozy intimacy. And if anything the Dvořák concert had been even better, the orchestra at the peak of their abilities under the visionary guide of a conductor who truly deserved to be called a genius. Even Slovakia’s blood was thrumming after the final piece had been completed, and no prompting from Czechia had been necessary to join in the well deserved standing ovation. “Antonín himself would have approved.”

“We’re lucky to have him,” Slovakia agrees, not really up to a more complicated analysis of the musical talents of Talich. Not with Czechia holding onto the crook of his arm as they walk together down the misty streets of Prague. Her evening coat, though exquisitely tailored and of a champagne shade that made Czechia’s hair look even deeper chestnut-brown than it normally did, just wasn’t warm enough. Or so she claimed.

There aren’t that many people around at the late hour. It’s nearly midnight, and other than the two of them only a handful of other passerby and the occasional car are out to be seen. It had been in Slovakia’s original plan to take a car back to their home, but after the concert they had both been too energized. It had been Czechia who had suggested just walking back, and it wasn’t so far a distance as to be strenuous. Besides, with the small package still resting in his coat pocket, still yet to be given, Slovakia could use the time to get his nerves under control.

The street lights cast soft haloes of light as the pair reaches the Charles Bridge. It makes the weathered stone of the ancient crossing seem like something out of a dream, fitting for a night that’s been such a welcome respite from the endless struggles of the world. It’s a bittersweet thought, knowing how much more lies ahead for Czechoslovakia. One that can’t help but have Slovakia pull Czechia a little closer, and though she makes a small noise of surprise she doesn’t protest. Arm in arm they make their way over the Charles Bridge, only the distant noises of nighttime Prague and the Vltava river rushing beneath breaking the silence.

“So…” Slovakia says, halting their progress at the halfway point of the bridge. Czechia glances up at him, even her heels not making much of a dent in their height difference. Taking a deep breath, Slovakia lets her arm slide from his, linking their hands instead. “I hope the evening has met with your approval?”

“...Yes, they did.” Czechia tosses her hair-a classic reaction when she’s trying to appear aloof-but that still doesn’t hide how pink her cheeks have gone. She presses her lips together, and her expression goes soft and a little shy. “But you know, this was for our anniversary, but this all seemed like things I like more than you do.”

Slovakia blinks, trying to collect himself, or at the very least not look like Czechia’s holding his heart in her small, artist’s hands. It’s not that seeing her quiet and vulnerable in itself undoes him-it’s that she trusts him enough to show such a rare side of herself.

“I don’t hate music and nice restaurants, especially when you’re there too,” Slovakia finally says. For what feels like the millionth time tonight he slides his free hand into his coat pocket and feels the weight of his gift. He had a speech prepared for this moment, something eloquent yet sincere, but in a flash it’s all fled him. Of course. All he can hope for is unvarnished truth will be good enough for Czechia.

“Tonight, I...I just wanted to show you that I can be your partner. Not your responsibility. I know I have a lot of catching up to do to you, but I can do it.” Slovakia’s proud his hand is only shaking a little bit when he pulls the small box, elegantly gift-wrapped in Paris with sparkling blue paper and gold ribbons, out of his pocket. “So, happy anniversary. Thanks for marrying me.”

Czechia takes it carefully, and though her hands are steady her eyes have misted over.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Czechia admits. “After you told me, I looked and looked-but I couldn’t find anything that was-”

“Tonight was all I wanted,” Slovakia says, and he’s surprised he doesn’t choke up on the words. “Trust me.”

“Should I open it now?” Czechia asks, running her hands carefully over the paper like it was as delicate as her famous glassworks.

“If you want,” Slovakia says, trying not to look like he’s about to have a heart attack out of sheer anxiety. Time ticks by in agonizingly slow beats as she loosens the ribbons and carefully unwraps the paper so as to not rip it. Because of course Czechia is one of _those_ gift receivers and is oblivious to her partner’s current state of baited nerves barely held together by skin and hope.

But _finally_ Czechia has the whole thing completely unwrapped. Holding the box up to see it better by the dim lights that dot the length of the Charles Bridge, she sucks in a startled gasp, bringing the package closer like she can’t believe what she’s actually seeing. 

“... _how_?” Czechia couldn’t have looked more astonished than if Slovakia had given her the Koh-i-Noor diamond instead of a bottle of perfume. “A unreleased Guerlain perfume? I hadn’t even heard a new one was going to be coming out-” 

“We have good friends,” Slovakia says simply, really not wanting to include the part about his last minute scramble.

“I’ll be sure to send France a thank you note,” Czechia murmurs, and the little smile that curves her lips makes Slovakia feel like he’s being pierced through the heart. But in a good way. Opening the box up, she lifts the bottle out of the hollow it rests in to cradle it in her hands. “Such a beautiful shape. I’d expect nothing less from Monsieur Guerlain.”

Slovakia has to take a deep, slow breath when Czechia slides off her evening coat, not minding the chill of the March night. Then when she slowly applies on the perfume to the tender points of her wrists, her neck, her elbows, he has to remind himself to _keep_ breathing. When she finally finishes, setting down the Shalimar on the bridge carefully as if it was made of eggshells, the anticipation is at least attempting to murder him if not in the middle of doing so.

“I’d like to give it more time to settle, but…” Czechia holds out her wrist, princess-like smile on her face that always drives him crazy. Slovakia feels like his heart is winding and unwinding, back and forth, and wonders how humans handle such a burden when he as a immortal land barely can. “What do you think?”

Closing his eyes, Slovakia takes Czechia’s wrist and holds it up to his nose. Feels the warmth of her skin, the thrumming of the rivers underneath that is her blood, the steady bones of her earth.

Smells the richest, most smoky, sensual spiced vanilla he’s ever experienced in his life. Vanilla is not a thing Slovakia has ever thought of as being incredibly erotic before this moment, but that stance is being swiftly reevaluated. In the part of his mind still capable of coherent thought, anyway. Slovakia’s body seems to have completely taken the reins now, folding Czechia into his arms and burying his face in the crook of her neck. 

Somehow, Shalimar smells _even better_ right on her neck. Slovakia could stand here forever, utterly enthralled by the combination of perfume and Czechia’s skin- 

Slovakia feels Czechia vibrate in his arms, and it dawns on him holding her like this is really going above and beyond the current boundaries of their relationship. Loosening his grip, Slovakia has any number of apologies dancing on the tip of his tongue, all of them fighting to be the first one out the gate. Then he realizes she’s laughing gently, and the black edged panic recedes a little.

“Idiot,” Czechia says, with a tenderness not normally associated with the word, and kisses him.  

Her lips are soft, soft like nothing else in this world, and taste faintly of the champagne they had enjoyed during the concert intermission. Slovakia’s pretty sure she really is trying to kill him, and has never minded his imminent demise so little. Just a press of her mouth to his, and he is utterly undone, the pieces shattered and reassembled into God knows what. Slovakia doesn’t ever try to think now-not with what is left of his brains melted into a puddle-just follows the instincts of his body. Wraps his arms around Czechia’s waist, pulls her closer, closer. Lets their mouths meld like their borders had upon their union, forgets where she ends and he begins. 

They separate, slowly, and Slovakia doesn’t think he’ll ever forgot the way Czechia’s mouth looks now, pink and swollen with kissing, if he lives a thousand more years.

“I take it this means you liked it,” Czechia says, husky tone at odds with her calm expression. She shrugs back on her evening coat, but despite the cool air red still stains those aristocratic cheekbones of hers. 

“No, you can’t wear it after all. I won’t be able to function,” Slovakia blurts out before thinking, which earns him another laugh. But a pleased sounding one, at least.

Slipping the bottle of Shalimar into her evening reticule, Czechia hands off the box and wrapping paper for Slovakia to hold. Linking their arms once more, they resume their walk across the Charles Bridge...not the same people they were when they first stepped onto it.

“Happy anniversary,” Czechia says softly, clinging to Slovakia’s arm a little tighter. The motion makes the scent of Shalimar waft up, and Slovakia has to take another breath for composure.

“We’ll have more,” Slovakia says, and he isn’t sure who needs the assurance, him or her.

“I hope so,” Czechia answers, a rare note of vulnerability in her voice.

“Me too,” Slovakia says. It’s really all he can do now, in an uncertain and fragile world. Hope, and stay close together.

* * *

 

It hadn’t quite worked out like that. The past hundred years had, if nothing else, had taught Slovakia even beings who counted their ages in centuries could still be capable of a naïveté matching their apparent physical youth. There’s so much he would have done differently, given a chance. Choices he would have made, actions he would have taken.

But looking at Czechia, stunning in a simple blue dress with enough of her collarbones bared to make Slovakia weak at the knees, makes him think what they arrived at wasn’t too bad, at least. Her lipstick is nearly the same pink-red shade as her Beaujolais wine, and makes him think of Czechia eating ripe harvest berries. Slowly, savoring them one by one, with hums of soft satisfaction.

All this time, Slovakia thinks after a fortifying sip of his own Riesling, and still not the slightest shred of resistance to her. Considering he had still been infatuated with Czechia at her brattiest, “I won the foot race again” and “The Holy Roman Emperor loves me and is building me another cathedral” moments, and has not been able to drop those emotions for close to a millennia now is probably the very definition of being beyond hope. Well, it’s not the most painful loss Slovakia’s dealt with concerning her. Not by a long shot. 

Slovakia pays the dinner bill, waving off Czechia’s attempt to split it. She grumbles at him, but he can still catch the pleased twitch of her lips as he hands over her coat. In another age Slovakia would have helped her into it, but now-now things aren’t so clear-cut. But he allows himself the indulgence of offering his arm as they leave the warm confines of _Au Vieux Comptoir_ for the cold Paris night. After a moment, Czechia accepts.

“Can we walk a little?” Slovakia asks her while they stroll down the street. There’s people around-it’s Paris, there’s never really a time where it’s empty-but compared to the popular tourist areas it’s about as peaceful as it gets considering they’re right in the middle of the second _arrondissement._

 _“_ Only if you remembered an umbrella this time,” Czechia says, not hiding a smile at his expense.

“Even if I didn’t, you’d still have one,” Slovakia points out. “Unless you were hoping we could share?”

That comment earns Slovakia a huff _and_ a pinch for his impertinence, but nonetheless Czechia still deigns to keep her arm around his. It’s a short walk to the Seine from the bistro, in a comfortable quiet.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” Czechia says, breaking the silence. There’s nothing negative in the phrasing, merely an observance of fact.

“Yeah,” Slovakia says. He guides them a bit leftwards, to the Pont au Change, and spares a moment to admire Notre Dame nearby, wearing the night like a queen wears a crown. “I’ve been feeling pretty nostalgic today.” 

“Oh?” Czechia asks, and her heels clattering against the stone of the bridge sounds so similar to that night in 1921 it makes Slovakia’s heart tighten.

“Or something like that,” Slovakia says, stopping them in the middle of the Pont au Change. He stares out at the calm waters of the Seine, indifferent to all but its own flowing, and thinks of another river and another bridge. In a way, another man and woman, old yet young, maybe too naive but hoping for a better world. One they could share, together. 

That time is long in the past, and there’s no returning to it. But Slovakia can at least revisit it again, if only for a moment. He looks at Czechia’s face, into her beautiful blue eyes-still untouched by time even nearly a century later. And yet, not as it once was. But neither, Slovakia supposes, is he.

“I got you something,” Slovakia finally says, reaching into his coat to pull out a small, wrapped package. Gold, with sparkling blue ribbons. 

Czechia accepts it, a knowing smile flitting across her face. Still-probably to tease him-she takes her sweet time removing the paper and ribbons. The box of Shalimar Eau de Parfum rests in her hands, a stately deep navy banded in gold. She laughs, but there’s just sweetness to it, a surprised delight.

“Shalimar...now that brings back memories,” Czechia says, taking the bottle of the box. “They’ve changed it a little.”

“The scent isn't quite the same, either,” Slovakia tells her.

“Neither are we,” Czechia says softly, and a lot unsaid passes in the look they share. 

“But still good, I think,” Slovakia says.

“Really,” Czechia uncaps the bottle, angling the nozzle properly before giving her neck and each wrist a quick spritz of fragrance. “Enough to practically make you ravish me right on a bridge again?”

Not so long ago that would have been enough to make Slovakia go as red as his flag. Now, he just grins a little and watches Czechia rub the perfume into her skin.

“Right by Notre Dame? How daring.” 

“Only if you’re religious.” Czechia holds out her wrist, smile more than a little colored with challenge. “Well?”

Slovakia doesn’t miss a beat, pulling Czechia into his arms and pressing his mouth to the tender spot of skin just beneath her jaw. It’s not the same, not fresh with the hope of their young republic, the excitement of all that could have been if things would just work out. But it’s still heavenly on her, if a little different, still a dream echoing vanilla and spice and eternal love.

It also does make Slovakia want to ravish Czechia, if not right on the Pont au Change. _That_ is something he doesn’t want to share with the world, then or now.

“I think I need a longer examination,” Slovakia eventually says, straightening to his full height. He doesn’t let go of Czechia, who in turn has a impressively solid grip on the lapels of his trench coat. “If you’re up for it.”

“Hmm…” Czechia says, and her fingers trace the lines of his lapels. She can probably feel how fast his heart is beating, but Slovakia doesn’t mind. “My hotel is closer to the conference hall. Just so you know.”

“Mine’s closer to here.”

A moment of silence. Then-

“If you cover the taxi, too.” 

“God, you’re demanding,” Slovakia says with love, then kisses the soft curve of Czechia’s mouth before she can retaliate. “Deal.”

* * *

 

Pain au chocolat at the conference today, only marginally less stale than yesterday’s croissants. And coffee, still of a degree of terribleness Slovakia (almost) wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy. It doesn’t stop him from smiling into his cup like it’s the finest artisanally sourced and roasted espresso to be found in Paris.

“The remarkable thing about great perfumes from my house,” France says, strolling up with the kind of casual air one takes only when they are trying to be very obvious about faking it. Slovakia can’t help but notice his cup bears the logo of a cafe with coffee of a distinct degree better than that available in the meeting room. “At least among their _many_ sterling qualities, is wear time.” 

A short sip of his beverage, as if to refresh a parched throat.

“Of course, that also lends itself to _transfer_.” Another sip, of such a relaxed nature it’s surprising France didn’t recline on the floor to do it. “If you intend to wear Shalimar again in the future, I thought the reminder would prove helpful.”

“Uh-huh,” Slovakia says flatly, then thinks for a moment before giving France his most overly cheerful grin. “Well, as long as we’re being helpful, I think you should ask England who catered the conference when he hosted it. The refreshments were better.”

Leaving France to squawk indignantly at a pitch not unlike that of his national animal, Slovakia goes to take his seat next to Czechia at the conference table. Catches smoke and vanilla, lemon and spice. Catches her hand in his, and holds on like he never wants to let go.

Catches Czechia’s small smile, and thinks eternal love isn’t so unfathomable. When it’s with the right person.

_FIN_

* * *

 

I’ll add more notes later but really I wanted to get this up especially since I missed day 2/nostalgia by a bit sorry @ciciives

 

(why can’t i write anything short _whhhhhyyyyyyy_ )

 

Printemps Haussmann is a fancy-pants Paris department store. Slovakia isn’t the type to splurge often, but he makes it count when he does.

 

My headcanon of Czechoslovakia as a union is Czechia proposed a union of western Slavs (minus Poland bc we are Not Speaking to him) to Slovakia with the independence declaration of the Czechoslovak Republic on October 28, 1918, having been mulling over the union of Czechs and Slovaks with varying degrees of seriousness for the past thirty-odd years. Two days later he accepted, but there was still kind of the whole matter of...borders not even _close_ to being settled and also the two-thirds of Slovak land occupied by Hungarian troops who were absolutely determined to hold onto “Upper Hungary”. I’m not going to go into my personal thoughts on the Treaty of Trianon, just the facts that the Slovakia situation was so uncertain until its signing you couldn’t really call Czechoslovakia a fully unified state. So we have a long engagement, and finally what I would consider their “marriage”, the ratifying of the Czechoslovak constitution on March 6th, 1920.

 

As for how, ahem, intimate their marriage was on physical level...well, I tried to leave it as ambiguous as possible. (But I headcanon over all those centuries together, especially when you’ve got eternal youth, eternal hormones, and really don’t like most of your other neighbors, well...stuff happens. ;D)

 

(As small side note, it took Hungary literally about to be invaded from every side, a famine, and the total collapse of her government to make her let go of Slovakia. There’s a wealth of yandere!Hungary fics we’re never going to get now that the Hetalia fandom isn’t nearly as active as it used to be and I don’t know how I feel about that).

 

France was _the_ most important ally of Czechoslovakia on the European continent, and one with a vested interest in seeing the young republic thrive as a counterweight to Germany. As Czechoslovakia was one of the last true democracies in Central Europe by the time World War II rolled around, it was a good investment-just one that was tragically fumbled in 1938, at which point there was really no going back from another war Czechoslovakia would be right in the middle of.

 

Shalimar, which was released in 1921, then re-released in 1925 after some legal disputes over the name, is considered the magnum opus of Jacques Guerlain (who also created Mitsouko, L’Bleu Heure, and came from a family of perfumers than had created perfumes for the highest echelons of French society for generations). It was, and is, a Big Deal, and the archetypical “oriental” perfume fragrance.

 

(My personal opinion on it? I’ll put it like this. I got a tester vial to help me write another fic that featured Czechia wearing Shalimar, and at first went “eh, kind of weird and strong” then fifteen minutes later when “holy crap this is deliciously sexy vanilla goodness” and ended up buying a whole bottle. It doesn’t work with everyone’s body chemistry, and they’ve had to adjust the formula because civet (which is an animal musk) can’t be used anymore, but I think it still smells damn good. Guerlain made a perfume that holds up even almost a hundred years after its release).

 

On Nations and language: I go by the headcanon that Nations speak their “own” language to each other, and then have to converse with humans in whatever dialect the human speaks. Slovakia just never was as good at French as Czechia (which is why it bears a _certain_ resembles to Google translate). Thankfully Guerlain was fluent in English, so I dodged a bullet with that scene.

 

Happy Velvet Pair Week, everyone! Let’s give these under appreciated Slavs some love!!!

 


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